


Boy meets boy (the robot remix)

by littlerhymes



Category: Bandom, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe, High School, M/M, Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-04
Updated: 2008-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:10:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/pseuds/littlerhymes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A high school AU. With robots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boy meets boy (the robot remix)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks and blame to be equally apportioned to beta reader proteinscollide; i_naiad for asking; and anyone who was ever involved with 1980s teen movies.

 

> "Cherrybrook Technology High School. And everyone that knows Cherrybrook, knows you have to say the Technology part after it because it was a government experiment in the whole digital side of it."   
> Michael Guy Chislett, [about his high school](http://littlerhymes.livejournal.com/118190.html#cutid2)  
> 

"This sucks," Mike says, folding his arms, "I ordered a Playstation 3, not a robot."  
   
The robot standing in the middle of the room stares woodenly ahead with blank blue eyes, indifferent to his ranting. Mike's pissed. He didn't spend all summer flipping burgers and mowing lawns to buy a glorified ken-doll.  
   
"I'm sending it back," he declares. "I want Metal Gear Solid."  
   
"Hey, I found the manual," Butcher says, looking up from the pile of shredded paper and bubble wrap all over the basement floor. "Says here... power switch on the back of the neck..."  
   
On casual glance the switch looks just like a big freckle. Mike presses it cautiously and then they both take huge steps back as the robot suddenly crackles to life.  
   
"Hey there," the robot says with a broad accent that sounds vaguely like Russell Crowe's, cracking a wide smile. "Thank you for purchasing the Chislett MGC 3000. Before we begin, have you read my user's manual? The manual is included in the box along with-"  
   
"Hey, robot! Give me a high five," Butcher interrupts, holding up his hand.  
   
The robot stares at Butcher's hand for a long moment. Just as Mike's about to say, _maybe it's broken_ , the robot hits Butcher's hand with a loud slap.  
   
"Sweet," Butcher says, grinning. "Dude, Carden, you totally have to take it to school tomorrow."  
   
*  
   
The next morning Mike digs out a spare pair of jeans and an old Led Zeppelin t-shirt, borrows his brother's pair of Converse without asking.  
   
"Here," he says, throwing the lot in the robot's direction. "Put these on."  
   
"Thanks, Mike Carden!" the MGC says. "However, my present attire is engineered for complete thermodynamic-"  
   
"It makes you look like an alien," Mike says. "Look, man, I can't take you to school if you're wearing a silver jumpsuit. People are gonna freak. Just. Get changed, okay?"  
   
There's this little pause, like the robot's processing. Then it blinks and says, "Okay," and starts to strip.  
   
Mike catches himself staring. Turns out beneath the alfoil the robot's got a body. An actual body - not something perfect out of a textbook but like a real boy's body, complete with nipples and abs and everything.  _Everything_.  
   
He swallows and looks away. "Hurry up," Mike says loudly, and kicks at the side of his schoolbag. "We're gonna be late."  
   
*  
   
They bet on how long it's gonna take for people to work out that the new kid is a robot. Mike is certain someone will catch on by the end of first period but Butcher's more optimistic - he's put twenty bucks on math.  
   
Five minutes into first period, the English teacher points a chalk-stained finger straight at the MGC and says, "And what is _this_?"   
   
Mike's just thinking it's the easiest twenty he's ever earned when the teacher continues, shaking his head: "New students can't just turn up to class, you should know that. Mike, can you please take him down to the front desk and get him properly enrolled?"  
   
He closes his mouth with a snap. "Sure," he says, through gritted teeth. Butcher sniggers as they leave the classroom, rubbing thumb and forefinger at Mike in a 'just got paid' gesture.  
   
Down at the front desk, the bored clerk snaps her gum and says, "First name?"  
   
"Michael," Mike says automatically. "Oh," he says, belatedly. "Sorry, I thought you meant the-"  
   
But she's already moved on to the next field. "Last name?"  
   
Mike blanks. "Uhh..."  
   
Suddenly the MGC speaks up, saying, "Chislett. My name is Michael Chislett."  
   
The clerk types it into the computer without a second glance and prints off a new timetable.  Mike sighs. Guess he owes Butcher twenty bucks.  
   
But math class comes and goes without anyone asking anything more than, "Hey, cool accent. Where are you from again?"  
   
Mike and Butcher hold their breaths. Chislett just smiles at William and says, "Australia."  
   
Technically, it's true. According to the manual, the MGC line is exclusively designed and manufactured in Cherrybrook, New South Wales, Australia.  
   
"Oh, wow. That's really far away," William says, before turning back to his conversation with Adam Siska.

Butcher looks like he's gonna explode. Now it's Mike's turn to smirk.   
   
The bell rings. "Fifty bucks on physics," Mike says quietly to Butcher as they exit the classroom.  
   
"Fifty bucks on _lunchtime_ ," Butcher shoots back.  
   
*

Halfway through physics, Chislett puts his hand up and won't put it down again until the teacher stops and says in a testy voice, "Yes? What is it?"  
   
"Actually," Chislett says brightly, "in quantum mechanics, an adiabatic change is one that occurs at a much slower rate than the difference in frequency between energy eigenstates."  
   
There's an awkward silence. Behind him, Mike hears someone whispering, "What a freak."  
   
The teacher slides his glasses down his nose and looks at the robot very hard, his mouth turning downwards in a suspicious frown. "I'm sorry, Mr - Chislett, isn't it? Didn't you say you were from _Australia_?"  
   
Yes, he thinks, _finally_.  
   
But the teacher just pushes his glasses back up and says, "Well, Mr Chislett, I must say I'm extremely impressed with the state of the Australian education system."  
   
Mike suppresses the urge to groan out loud and slumps in his seat instead.  
    
At lunch they play half-court basketball, two on two. "Stay there and mind our stuff," Mike says to Chislett, pointing to the bags left on the sidelines. Chislett sits down in the grass amiably enough.  
   
Siska dribbles the ball down the court, dodging William's windmilling arms, and passes to Butcher with a shout. But Butcher's taken off guard and the ball glances off his arm and off the court, heading straight towards Chislett's head.  
   
"Watch it!" Siska shouts.  
   
Mike's the closest. He sees Chislett look calmly upwards at the ball and raise his hand, forefinger pointed. There's a flash of blinding light - like a laser, Mike thinks - and then the smell of burning rubber. The basketball's nowhere to be seen.  
   
"What the fuck was that?" Siska says, skidding to a halt. "Dude, what did you do to my basketball?"  
   
When Chislett just blinks at him innocently, Siska starts to get mad. "You pointed at it," he says loudly, "I saw you pointing and then-"  
   
"Just relax, Sisky," William interrupts, slinging his arm around Siska's shoulders. "You can always get another basketball. Besides, he's _Australian_ ," he adds in a stage whisper, like that explains everything.  
   
Maybe, Mike realises, William thinks it does.  
   
When the bell goes for the end of lunch, Mike hands the robot over to Butcher, saying, "I've got music next. Can you take him?"  
   
"Sure. The art teacher's so stoned he never notices anything anyway." Butcher tugs at Chislett's sleeve. "Come on, Chiz."  
   
Chislett follows easily enough, though not without a backwards glance. Mike tells himself the disappointed look on Chislett's face must be his imagination - it's a _robot_ , for god's sakes - and hurries to the music room.  
   
*  
   
After class, Mike finds them already waiting in the parking lot next to Butcher's car.  
   
"No, like this," Butcher is saying, molding Chislett's hand into a fist. "And then one, two, three - yes!" He whoops. "Paper totally beats rock, dude. Yeah, I know, it doesn't make any sense to me either."  
   
"How was art?" Mike says, interrupting.  
   
Usually music is his favourite class but today he couldn't concentrate, dreading to think what stupid thing Chislett might be saying about post-modern impressionists or whatever.  
   
Butcher just grins and gives him the thumbs-up. "The teacher loved him. We had free drawing and he did these awesome abstracts. Show him," he says, elbowing Chislett in the side.  
   
Almost shyly, Chislett pulls out a couple of pieces of paper and hands them over.  
   
Part of Mike is kinda annoyed, actually, that art class went so well. Given the debacle that was the basketball game, there should have at least been an explosion or something. Even so, Mike has to admit the drawings are pretty cool, all strokes and blocks of colour in straight lines and hard angles.  
   
"Just like Mondrian," Butcher says admiringly.  
   
*  
   
Mike and Butcher end up taking Chislett to band practise after school, simply because they don't know what else to do with him.   
   
While they're waiting for the others to arrive at Butcher's house, Mike pulls out his untouched school copy of _Catcher in the Rye_  and drops it in Chislett's lap. "Here, read this or something," he says. "We should be done in a couple of hours."  
   
"No worries," Chislett says, nodding. "Do you want a 500 word summary or a chapter by chapter synopsis?"  
   
"Uh. Both?" Mike says, blinking.  
   
Wow, he thinks. Robots are awesome.  
   
Practise starts out well, until Tom makes a snide comment about some chord progression and William immediately flares up. Butcher shakes his head and Siska sighs audibly. They've all seen this before, William and Tom going at it hammer and tongs until one of them gives in or storms out.  
   
"Look, Conrad," William says at one point, starting to turn red. "If you don't wanna be in my band, why don't you just fucking say so rather than trying to, like, _undermine_ me and criticise every single little thing I-"  
   
"Fine, then I fucking quit!" Tom shouts. With a triumphant look in his eyes, he takes off his guitar and grabs his bag. He slams the door behind him and then opens it again to add, "For real this time!"  
   
After the second door-slam, there's a long, horrible silence. William paces the room, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. Siska's clutching his bass like it's a teddy bear and making scared eyes at Butcher.  
   
"Jesus, Beckett," Mike says finally, even though he knows he shouldn't. It's just - he's so  _sick_ of this band sometimes. It's like he's the only one that actually gives a shit. "You know we have a gig in two weeks. How are we gonna get another guitarist in time?"  
   
"Fuck Tom," William says stubbornly, though he's chewing at his thumbnail and his voice is subdued. "Like we need him anyway."  
   
"Fuck Tom?" Mike says incredulously. "Fuck _you_. Also, _your_ band? Excuse me, since when?"  
   
Siska and Butcher exchange 'here we go again' looks, but before it can escalate into another full scale fight, Mike hears Tom's guitar line from Checkmarks, strummed out quietly but flawlessly on an unplugged electric. Everyone shuts up at the same time, heads swivelling in unison.  
   
Mike feels his jaw dropping open. It's Chislett, of course, holding Tom's discarded guitar.  
   
"Play that again," William says in a strangled voice. Without looking down Chislett repeats the line, his fingers perfect on the frets and strings.  
   
Robots, Mike thinks with a rush of relief. They're _awesome_.  
   
*  
   
Now that Chislett's in the band, Mike's kinda anxious for people to _not_ realise he's a robot. Not for another couple of weeks, anyway. So the next day before school, he says, "Look, man. You need to chill out when you're in class."  
   
Chislett looks blank. "Chill out?"  
   
"Yeah," Mike says, trying to think how he can explain the concept of cool to a robot. "Stop using big words and letting the teachers know how smart you are. Just... lie low. Talk like everyone else."  
   
A pause while Chislett processes the instruction. Then his face lights up, smiling sunnily. "Sure, Mike Carden. I can do that!"  
   
It's just clever programming, an automated response. Mike _knows_ that. He smiles back anyway.  
   
"Oh, yeah, and one more thing," he adds after a moment. "No more lasers, okay?"  
   
School goes a lot better after that.   
   
By the end of the week Chislett's even remembering to make spelling errors in his homework, and everyone soon forgets there was anything weird about Chislett in the first place.  
   
Besides, any time he does do something odd or reveals a strange gap in his knowledge (William actually gasps out loud when Chislett says he doesn't how to play baseball) someone will pipe up with, "But isn't he from Australia?" And that's always the end of that.   
   
There's a few frantic days in the beginning when Mike has to sneak Chislett in and out of the basement, timing it before his parents wake up and before they get home.   
   
After the third near miss, he gives up and tells his parents Chislett's an exchange student and he's gonna be staying for a few weeks, if that's okay. "Sure, honey," his mom says, not looking up from her case file and laptop.  
   
His dad just reminds him to be careful about the good furniture stored in the basement - "no water, no cola, and definitely no alcohol within five feet of that leather couch!"  
   
*  
   
As for Mike, well, he just gets used to Chislett being there all the time.  
   
He's always had plenty of friends and people to hang out with and whatever, but he's never had a best friend the way that, say, Butcher has Sisky.  
   
Not that the robot is Mike's _friend_ , exactly. But Mike can't help thinking that if he _did_ have a best friend it might go something like this. Like having someone around who's always ready to play video games or practise guitar or go down to the mall or listen to new records. Someone who likes the same things Mike likes.  
   
"Sure, Mike," Chislett always says with what sounds like easy good humour. "That sounds fun."  
   
When it comes to records, _everything_ is new for Chislett. Seeing as he's now the band's lead guitarist, this doesn't seem quite right. They end up spending hours in Mike's bedroom, catching up on the history of rock'n'roll.   
   
"This," Mike says, reverently lifting the cd from its case, "is Siamese Dream. It is _awesome_."  
   
"Yeah," Chislett agrees after few tracks, nodding along to Hummer. "Oh yeah. Those guitars are really sick."  
   
"I know, right?" Mike says eagerly. "Man, just wait until you hear track nine!"  
   
It gets so that Mike has to remind himself, like seriously just pinch himself and say, dude, remember, this is a _robot_. He's not really your friend. He's not real at all.  
   
Except that little fact gets easier to forget all the time, especially the way Chislett keeps learning stuff.   
   
Since Chislett doesn't have to sleep, he spends most nights in the basement watching MTV and HBO and the CW. There's one unfortunate Sopranos marathon that has him talking like a phony mobster for the better part of a day, but mostly he just sounds more and more like an average teenage guy.  
   
The accent never changes, though. Mike kinda likes that.  
   
Meanwhile the drawings Chislett brings home from art class get less abstract and blocky. Shapes start showing up, things you might actually see in nature. As the Butcher says, "less Mondrian and more, like, Picasso."   
   
"What's this one?" Mike says, pointing to Chislett's latest. "A car? That's cool. And what's this one?" he says, turning to the next page in the sketchbook. It almost looks like a person holding a guitar.  
   
"That's you," Chislett says simply, looking at him with big blue eyes.  
   
"Oh," Mike says, and feels his face burning.  
   
*  
   
It's Saturday, the night of the gig. Well. 'Gig', meaning Pete Wentz's birthday party.  
   
But a show's a show, right? And Pete's the best connected guy in the whole of the Chicago punk scene. They don't know who might be at the party, waiting and ready to sign the next big thing.  
   
"Why did Beckett say we have to look good tonight?" Chislett says, waiting patiently on Mike's bed.  
   
Mike shrugs carelessly and stares into the mirror, finger-combing his hair. "Because, you know. There might be A&R. 'cause everyone's gonna be looking at us. 'cause there's gonna be girls and stuff."  
   
Finally satisfied, he turns away from the mirror and gives Chislett a critical once-over. The jeans are fine and the Converse sneakers too. The Pixies t-shirt is definitely fine, because Mike specifically _bought_ it.   
   
(This last was a direct result of Sisky piping up last week, "dude, why is Chiz always wearing your clothes?" He'd blanked. Luckily Butcher had stepped in and made something up about a broken washing machine.)  
   
But as for the rest of him -   
   
"Why do you always look like such a fucking boy scout?" Mike says, exasperated. "Stand up." Quickly he untucks Chislett's shirt from his jeans, ruffles at his combed-back hair with gelled fingers. "Okay, that's sort of better."  
   
Sort of. Mike has the sneaking feeling that no amount of mousse or any number of tight rock t's can take away from Chislett's low-level but constant broadcast of wholesomeness.  
   
Chislett just looks through his now-untidied blonde bangs and says, "Thanks, man." He smiles brilliantly, blue eyes crinkling, and suddenly Mike feels his heart go _ba-bump_.  
   
Oh shit, he thinks, and backs away mumbling something about the bathroom.  
   
With the bathroom door safely closed behind him, Mike splashes water on his face and thinks hard over the past two weeks and all the hours he's spent with Chislett, how Chislett's the last person he speaks to each night and the first person he thinks about each morning. How he talks to Chislett like a real person, looks at Chislett like he's a real boy.  
   
How he's been pretending to himself that Chislett is looking back.  
   
"Fuck," Mike says flatly, and lets his head fall against the bathroom mirror with a thump.  
   
He has a crush on a robot.  
   
On a ROBOT.  
   
*  
   
Pete's birthday is the worst show they've ever played and that's saying a lot.  
   
It's Mike's fault and he knows it. He keeps screwing up, glancing over at Chislett and then looking away again, fumbling his chords. He's so bad he's throwing out Siska - Siska! rock solid Siska! - which in turn throws out Butcher. He can feel Beckett shooting him death glares after every second line.  
   
Meanwhile Chislett plays on, never dropping a single note. Fucking robot, Mike thinks bitterly.  
   
At the end of the set there's a scattering of applause from the indifferent crowd. Lips tight, William throws down his mic and heads straight towards the bar without looking back. Honestly, Mike can't blame him.  
   
Mike's putting his guitar and amp away when he senses someone standing at his elbow. Some _thing_ , he corrects himself mentally, and looks up with a scowl. "What?"  
   
"Do you want a drink?" Chislett says, grinning. "I can get you one."  
   
"I'll get my own," Mike says shortly. "Just. Go away and bother someone else tonight, okay?"  
   
Chislett doesn't say anything. He just looks at Mike with sad eyes, his mouth turning downwards.  
   
Mike looks quickly away and at the cord he's winding around his arm. Before he can start feeling too guilty, he reminds himself that Chislett probably learnt that expression from Dawson's Creek re-runs.  
   
When Mike looks up again a second later, Chislett's gone. He swallows and says to himself, good.  
   
Some hours and a lot of drinks later, he's still miserable.  
   
He's fucking _miserable_ , okay, and being at the party isn't helping. Everywhere he looks, people are hooking up and making out. Pete the birthday boy is all over some little red-haired dude with glasses, William's sucking face with Christine the cheerleader. Over in the corner Gabe Saporta is sprawled out on the couch with his head in one girl's lap and his legs draped all over another - oh, no, wait. Mike squints and mentally corrects himself. The one petting Gabe's legs is a guy.  
   
Mike drains the last of his can of beer - he can't even remember how many he's had at this point - and heads for the front door, only swaying slightly. He sits down on the steps, head in his hands.  
   
"Hey, there you are," someone says, nudging him in the shoulder. He looks up too quickly, but it's just Siska, and behind him a grinning Butcher. "We're gonna, you know." Siska pretends to puff on an invisible spliff. "You wanna come?"  
   
Mike shakes his head. "I think I'm gonna go home," he says, or tries to say anyway.  
   
He leans against the railing and closes his eyes for a second, or maybe it's a minute, or maybe even longer, because the next time he opens his eyes Chislett is there, hauling him to his feet and wrapping an arm around his waist.  
   
"Where're you taking me?" Mike slurs, letting Chislett walk him down the stairs. "Where're we going?"  
   
"Home," Chislett says, and that's the last thing he remembers before passing out.  
   
*  
   
The first thing he notices when he wakes up the next day is that he has an absolutely filthy hangover.  
   
The second thing he notices is that he's in his own bed, dressed only in his boxers. His jeans and t-shirt have been tidily folded and left on his chair.  
   
Chislett, he thinks instantly, and flashes to an image of Chislett pushing him onto the bed and pulling the shirt over his head, of Chislett tugging the jeans from his hips, his hands on Mike's thighs. He is suddenly and embarrassingly hard.  
   
Mike gulps and lies back in bed, hands carefully by his sides, waiting until it goes away. The nausea and headache certainly help.  
   
This has got to stop, he thinks to himself. "This has got to stop," he repeats out loud.  
   
He already knows what he has to do.  
   
It's ages before Mike feels ready to go down into the basement. He delays the moment as long as he can - taking a long shower, choking down a slice of toast, reading the sports pages - but finally he knows he can't put it off any longer.  
   
Chislett is watching MTV as usual, sitting crosslegged in front of the television. He turns around when Mike comes down the stairs and grins. "Hey. You're up early."  
   
This is a joke, Mike realises belatedly. It's one in the afternoon. "Ha ha," he says hollowly and sits down beside Chislett, close enough that their knees brush. He closes his eyes.  
   
"You feeling okay?" Chislett says, sounding concerned. "Do you want some Advil?"  
   
"I'm fine," Mike lies. He opens his eyes again. He looks at Chislett, all worried-looking and anxious and so fucking _hot_ , and has to dig his fingers into his knees to stop his hands from shaking. "I'm fine," he repeats, and when he feels like he can trust his hands again he reaches out and rests his palm on the back of Chislett's neck.  
   
Chislett's skin is warm, as warm as a real boy's, and his hair is soft and ticklish against Mike's hand. Mike rubs his palm back and forth over Chislett's neck for a few moments, lets himself pull Chislett in closer and closer until their foreheads are touching, so their mouths are only inches apart.  
   
"I'm sorry," Mike says hoarsely. "I'm really sorry."  
   
"What for?" Chislett says.  
   
And that's when Mike presses down hard on the switch at the back of Chislett's neck. It's the hardest thing he's ever done.  
   
"I'm sorry," he says again, but he's just talking to himself now. "I just couldn't take it anymore, okay? I just. I liked you too much and. It was fucking me up."  
   
He'll pack him up later, put him back in the box with the bubble wrap and the shredded paper, before sending him back to the store. Later. For now he just covers Chislett up with a sheet and turns out the lights.  
   
Then he goes upstairs to his room and throws himself on the bed, blasting Led Zeppelin's II from the stereo, on repeat.  
   
He does _not_ cry.  
   
*  
   
The next day he slouches into school. English is first period and Chislett's neatly typed notes for _Catcher in the Rye_ weigh in his backpack like a stone. He hasn't read them. He expects class will be shit.  
   
What Mike does  _not_ expect is that he'll walk in and find Chislett sitting at his usual desk, laughing at some joke Beckett's made about the weekend's party, leaning over to say something to Siska.  
   
Chislett breaks off mid-sentence to look up at Mike, his expression shy. "Hi, Mike."  
   
He tries to say something but all that comes out is a strangled squeak. Siska and William give him weird looks.  
   
Finally he manages to grab Chislett by the arm and hustle him out of the classroom, ignoring Butcher's shout of "Carden, dude, are you okay?"  
   
He drags Chislett into the restrooms next door and pulls them both into the same cubicle.  
   
"What the hell?" he shouts, pushing Chislett up against the tiled wall. "I turned you off! Did Butcher do this?" he says, suddenly suspicious. Butcher's the only other one who knows. "That sneaky motherfucker, I'm gonna kill him!"  
   
"Jeez, calm down. It wasn't Butcher," Chislett says, resting his hands on Mike's shoulders. He grins suddenly. "I'm an MGC 3000, you know. Military grade. My AI is extremely advanced."  
   
"What does that-?"  
   
"It means, I don't have an off button," Chislett says, rolling his eyes.  
   
Mike frowns. "But the switch on your neck..."

"It's a freckle."  
   
"But the user's manual..."  
   
"The manual's for the MGC 2000," Chislett says patiently, shaking his head. "I'm a 3000. I ran away from the laboratory and I thought it would be smart to put in the wrong manual. Misdirection or whatever."  
   
Mike opens his mouth, closes it again. "Oh. So." He thinks back to the basement. "You heard everything I said, didn't you?"  
   
Chislett grins again and his hands tighten on Mike's shoulders. "Yeah. I did." And then it's Mike's turn to be pushed back against the cubicle wall.  
   
"What are you doing?" Mike says, breathlessly, redundantly. Chislett's hands have dropped to Mike's hips, and now he's nuzzling at Mike's _neck_. "But you. You don't know what you're doing."  
   
"My AI is extremely advanced," Chislett repeats, his voice a bit muffled because his mouth has moved onto Mike's jawline. "I'm 100% capable of independent thought and action. And, uh. Other things too."  
   
"Oh," Mike says, feeling dizzy. "Okay."  
   
"Okay?" Chislett pulls back a little, looking mildly irritated. "Is that it? _Okay_?"  
   
"Okay," Mike says smiling, and leans in to kiss him back.  
   
   
 


End file.
